


thank you for being there (thank you for loving me)

by FullmetalChords



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Homophobia, M/M, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:39:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21600892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FullmetalChords/pseuds/FullmetalChords
Summary: Claude is forced to attend his homophobic aunt's for Thanksgiving and is sick of putting up with her. Even more than that, he doesn't want to attend alone.Enter the cryptid who lives down the hall, who scowls at everyone he meets and who may (or may not) be a member of the Russian mob.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 46
Kudos: 829





	thank you for being there (thank you for loving me)

In all honesty, Claude has never been a fan of Thanksgiving. He hates turkey, thinks the whole reason for the holiday is some major revisionist bullshit, and often spends the day drinking too much sour beer while feigning interest in American football. He often finds himself counting the minutes until he can reasonably make his escape — usually some point between the pumpkin pie and his conservative uncle’s fourth glass of scotch.

It’s far less overwhelming during the years that his parents take him to celebrate Thanksgiving with his mother’s side of the family, with just her reserved father and oft-distracted uncle. But this year…

“We’re going to Aunt Laleh’s house?” Claude groans, shifting the phone from one ear to the other. “Mom, I’m begging you. Tell them I’m sick. Tell them… tell them I died. Anything to not have to spend the day with her.”

His father’s oldest sister is his least favorite relative by a long shot. Always criticizing his hair and clothing choices, always taunting his parents for the way they raised him, always trying to set him up with the daughters of her friends. The last one would be annoying even if Claude _hadn’t_ told her, a hundred times by now, that he's bisexual and prefers men over women. She always seems to go mysteriously deaf whenever the subject of his own sexuality comes up, instead preferring to treat the whole family to one of her lectures about how same-sex attraction goes against the so-called “natural order” of things.

So, yeah. He’d rather pull all his own teeth out than spend the holiday in her house. 

“Claude _joon_ ,” his mother sighs, a crackle over the phone’s speaker. “I’ve made excuses for you on our last three visits already. Any more and she’ll come marching down there herself to nurse you back to health.”

“Fine, fine,” Claude sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose, already anticipating the migraine he’ll have by the end of the appetizer course. “…You think there’s any way I can get away with leaving after an hour?”

“If there were a way, your father and I would have found it long ago.”

“Goddamn it.”

“You’re bringing the pumpkin pie,” his mother informs him, and then hangs up. Claude groans, letting his hand fall to his side. 

Great. Just great. He can see it now: his aunt spending the evening criticizing his choice to become an online content creator after graduating college, rather than go into medicine or finance. Trying to arrange a match with yet another girl he has no interest in going on a first date with, let alone marry. She’d already tried to pull that arranged marriage bullshit with the rest of his cousins; Claude has zero interest in letting it happen to him, too.

If only he were already dating someone, to at least cut off that avenue! But while Claude has been on his fair share of dates lately, opening up enough that the relationship might progress to the next level has always been… difficult, for him. None of his recent dates come to mind as someone who he might want to take to this event, even if that didn't feel like unfairly leading them on. 

Even asking a friend seems fraught. Hilda already has plans to spend the day with Holst; Lorenz might come, if only to get away from his father, but then he’d have to listen to Lorenz talk about stock options for most of the night, which would hardly be an improvement from the usual Thanksgiving garbage. 

Claude is still turning over this prospect in his mind late that night, as he drags a basket of laundry to his apartment complex’s laundry room. It’s late in the evening, just past 11pm, but Claude has come to prefer doing his laundry this late, knowing the room will be empty and the machines free.

Only thing is, he isn’t alone tonight.

Claude comes into the laundry room to find one other person already in, pulling a load of socks from the dryer, shaking them out and folding them. Claude thinks he recognizes him as the occupant of 3H - large, hulking, stringy blond hair hiding his face. He gives Claude only the barest grunt of acknowledgement as he enters with his own load of jeans and pullovers. 

Blade, he thinks the guy’s name is. At least, that’s always the word that pops into Claude’s head whenever he has a chance to get a good look at him. Dressed as he is now, in an oversized T-shirt and baggy basketball shorts, Claude can spy a web of scars criss-crossing his neighbor’s arms and legs, his feet disappearing into a pair of black slides worn with _socks_ , of all things. He’s got an eye missing, too; or at least, Claude thinks he must, given that he wears an eyepatch everywhere. 

He’s never once seen a smile on Blade’s face, never shared a conversation with him outside of grunts like this in the laundry room, or once when Claude had received some of his mail by mistake. He doesn’t know if he’s ever met someone more difficult to read, or communicate with.

 _Ameh Laleh would hate him_ , he thinks with a sudden, vicious spark of inspiration.

“Hey,” he says, and Blade looks up at him, impassive. “Your name’s… Blade-something, right?”

His neighbor’s good eye narrows. 

“Blaiddyd is my surname,” and Claude curses to himself for misremembering the name on the envelopes. “My first name is Dimitri.”

“Dimitri,” Claude repeats to himself, and smiles. With every word, this guy is turning into a cliche from every Russian mob movie ever made. “I’m Claude,” he offers, raising a hand in greeting. “I live down the hall.”

“I know.” Dimitri turns back to folding his socks. “I’ve seen you.” The tone is neutral enough to spur Claude onwards, taking a wild leap into what might be his biggest Thanksgiving scheme yet.

“Say, Dimitri.” His neighbor looks up at him, that greasy blond hair still in his face. “You got any plans for Thanksgiving?”

—

Claude arrives at Aunt Laleh’s house a good fifteen minutes early on Thanksgiving Day, in a habit drilled into him by his parents from childhood. However, he stays outside the front door, waiting for Dimitri to arrive. In all honesty, he still can’t believe his neighbor said _yes_ to this whole affair. Not only yes to the dinner; but yes to pretending to be Claude’s boyfriend for the evening.

“You can be as awful as you want all night,” Claude had promised him, that night in the laundry room. “I swear I won’t mind.”

Dimitri had snorted. 

“How reassuring.”

And now Dimitri is running late. Well, Claude supposes that isn’t such a bad thing. The later he is, the more irritated his aunt will be. Still, he’s relieved when an Uber pulls up to his aunt’s house at five minutes to six, a tall, lanky blond figure emerging.

“There you are,” Claude says with relief as Dimitri comes up his aunt’s front walk. “I was starting to think you ch…”

He cuts himself off, taking in Dimitri’s appearance. 

Dimitri looks… _good_. He’s washed his hair and shaved, his chin-length blond hair pulled back into a sleek half-ponytail. He’s got on a decent (if scuffed) pair of loafers and some slacks that are a bit too big on him, and a dark blue _sweater vest_ , of all things. It sets off the pale blue of his lone eye in a way that’s… Well, it’s attractive, Claude will admit. 

“I,” Dimitri begins, seeing the way Claude takes in the sight of him. “I hope that I am not overdressed.”

“Oh, no,” Claude says, shaking his head. “You’ll do just fine. Er.” He clears his throat, trying to get back on message. “Thanks again for coming.”

Dimitri nods, curt, although he seems less dour than he usually does when Claude sees him in their building.

“It seemed a sight better than eating Bugles and Cheez Whiz on my sofa.”

Claude cannot help but let out a shout of laughter, leaning forward to ring the doorbell.

“We’ll see if you’re still saying that once you’ve met my aunt.”

“I did bring wine,” Dimitri offers, pulling a nice bottle of red out from the paper bag he’s been holding. Claude winces.

“My aunt’s actually a strict Muslim, so she doesn’t drink.” Dimitri’s eye goes wide in panic, putting the bottle back in the bag and moving as though to hide it in the bushes. Claude grabs his arm to stop him. “But _I_ do.”

The door opens then, and Claude pastes on his best smile for his aunt. 

“Ameh _joon_!” he says warmly, opening his arms for her. “Happy Thanksgiving!”

Claude’s Aunt Laleh is a round-faced woman with his father’s dark eyes, which are currently searching Claude up and down for any perceived flaws. 

“Claude,” she says with a false hostess’s smile. “So nice to see you fully recovered from that nasty bout of pneumonia. We missed you at Norooz.”

“Ah, yeah, so sorry I missed it,” Claude lies through his teeth. “Anyway, we brought the pumpkin pie!” He holds up a grocery bag containing four or five of the things, picked up from the grocery store on his way over. His aunt views them with undisguised disappointment. 

“Who is your friend, Claude?”

Claude’s face lights up with fiendish glee.

“My _friend_?” he repeats with a toothy grin, reaching out to grab Dimitri by the waist, pulling him in. “No, no, auntie. Let me introduce you to my _boyfriend_ , Dimitri.”

“Thank you for having me over,” Dimitri says, somewhat awkwardly. “Sorry for bringing wine.”

The way his aunt’s eyes narrow and glare at Claude is positively delicious. Maybe she’ll turn him away outright and he’ll have the rest of the evening free. But in the end, her need to be hospitable apparently wins out.

“Welcome to our home,” she says to Dimitri. “Please, come in, and help yourself to whatever you’d like.”

And with that, she stands aside, and Claude and Dimitri enter the lion’s den.

—

Okay, Claude will have to admit: Dimitri is impressing him.

He hadn’t been sure what to expect when he’d invited him for Thanksgiving. He’d thought perhaps Dimitri would start a fight, or start loudly talking about politics in the middle of dinner, or — best case scenario, at least in Claude’s vision of the evening — sit in the corner and glare at everyone, scaring all of Claude’s most abhorrent relatives away from talking with him. 

Hell, even if Dimitri had played up the whole mob aesthetic a little, he wouldn’t have been disappointed. It might have even been hot.

But instead, Dimitri is being a perfect gentleman. He lets himself be wheeled around to all of Claude’s different aunts and uncles and cousins to be introduced, making an apparent effort to learn and remember all of their names. He holds small talk with Claude’s uncles about soccer and training regimens — apparently Dimitri works as a physical therapist in a rehab facility for people who have suffered traumatic brain injuries, which Claude admits he never saw coming. He’s even sweet to Claude’s little cousins, asking about their games and cutting up turkey for Claude’s cousin’s toddler to eat with her pudgy fingers. 

Even Claude’s parents seem impressed by him, which is a first when it comes to his potential partners. 

“Where have you been hiding him, enh?” his father asks him as they head back to the buffet table for another serving. “You didn’t tell your mother and me that you had a boyfriend. Especially not one that cleans up so nice.”

“Baba!” Claude looks around, seeing Dimitri having a pleasant conversation with his cousin Qasim, his aunt keeping half an eye on them from a distance. “He’s not… really… my boyfriend,” he admits in a low voice to his father. “Just my neighbor. I thought bringing him around would piss off auntie Laleh.”

His father barks out a laugh at that.

“Well, you’re not wrong,” he says with a grin that matches Claude’s. “Never seen my big sister so worked up. Still, that boy’s too nice for you to just keep in bed, you know. Go on and make it official, bring him around for Friday dinner someday.”

“We haven’t—! Gah.”

Once the food has finally been eaten and the tables cleared, Dimitri is the first to volunteer to wash the dishes, earning himself (and Claude by extension) a metric fuckton of brownie points that are, at this point, unnecessary. As if he hasn’t been getting compliments on his “nice young man” from the more liberal family members all night, and even a few words of approval from the more conservative ones for bringing his “friend” around. 

“I’ll dry,” Claude volunteers, and Dimitri smiles at him. It’s _weird_ , seeing him smile, when all he does when they see each other in the real world is glower in Claude’s general direction. 

Though, Claude will be the first to admit… Dimitri has a nice smile. Reserved, maybe, but it makes him look much younger, closer to Claude’s own age. 

They set up at the kitchen sink, with Dimitri carefully washing Claude’s aunt’s good china before handing each plate to Claude to dry. The rest of the family is in the den, setting up board games for the children and teenagers while his uncle brews coffee for the adults. 

“Thank you for inviting me.” Dimitri is the first to speak over the sound of the running water. “I don’t think I said so properly, before. It has been a long time since I had people to spend this particular holiday with.”

Somehow, Dimitri’s words make Claude feel terrible. He never would have invited Dimitri, of course, if he hadn’t anticipated him being a complete nightmare to deal with.

“I didn’t think you’d be so… nice,” he finally says, drying another plate and setting it to one side of the sink. Dimitri turns to him with a frown.

“Did you not want me to be nice?”

Claude sucks in a breath between his teeth. 

“Honestly?” He grimaces at himself. “I just… I didn’t expect it. Whenever I see you in the laundry room, you always seem so…”

“Quiet?”

Claude grimaces again.

“Mean.” Dimitri turns to him with an incredulous expression, and he finds himself scrambling. “Just like! You have an eye thing. You know you do that thing with your eyes that scares people!”

“Eye,” Dimitri corrects drily, pointing with one soapy hand at his eyepatch, and Claude snorts in spite of himself. “I believe it’s called resting bitch face, is it not?”

Claude laughs again, and Dimitri smiles at him, wry. 

“And if I ever seem particularly short-tempered in the laundry room,” Dimitri continues, spraying a jet of hot water onto the roasting pan, “it’s only because doing laundry is terrible.”

“It is,” Claude groans emphatically, and now it’s Dimitri’s turn to chuckle. It’s a pleasant sound, and Claude finds himself wishing he could have heard it much sooner. 

“How come you didn’t have plans today?” he asks, taking the silverware from the bottom of the sink and starting to dry each piece carefully, so his aunt won’t scream at him.

Dimitri takes a moment before answering.

“I… no longer have a family.” Claude looks up at him in surprise; from this angle, Dimitri’s eye patch is facing him, obscuring his gaze from view, but his head is lowered, his tone mournful. “I lost my parents several years ago, in the same car accident that took my eye. My sister and I are estranged; I have not heard from her in years. And… I have a difficult time making friends. What few friends I do have all traveled home for the holiday, leaving me alone in the city.” 

Claude’s heart sinks even further.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says quietly.

Dimitri shrugs. 

“Thanksgiving is not a particularly cherished holiday of mine, anyway. As Jake Peralta once said, ‘The Pilgrims were murderers, and turkey tastes like napkins.’”

“Right?” Claude gasps, enthralled to find out that his neighbor not only shares his taste in TV shows, but also shares his opinions on Thanksgiving. “Why don’t we ever talk about that? When the fuck are we going to give reparations to the Native Americans?”

“Or to all the turkeys?” The two of them laugh together, then Dimitri sobers. “So I suppose I should thank you for inviting me to your family’s festivities. Even,” he continues on a more bitter note, “if you only did so because you expected me to be monstrous.”

“Dimitri,” Claude starts, then cuts himself off with a sigh. It’s not like Dimitri’s wrong, after all. “Honestly,” he admits, “the main reason I asked you to come be my fake boyfriend is because I wanted to piss off my aunt.”

Dimitri looks at him with some surprise.

“Anahita? Why?”

“No, not her.” Anahita is Claude’s favorite aunt by far, young and liberal, who took Claude to get his first piercing in his teens. “Laleh. The hostess.” Dimitri’s eye goes wide as he makes a noise of understanding. “You probably noticed her, uh, less-than-modern opinions of LGBT folk.” Claude sighs, tossing the dishtowel over his shoulder. “I just… wanted to make one of these family gatherings as annoying and uncomfortable for her as they’ve always been for me. But it was selfish of me to drag you into it. I’m sorry, Dimitri.”

Dimitri cocks his head at Claude, shutting off the tap and flicking some excess soapy water off his fingers.

“Oh,” he says simply. “Why did you not simply say that in the first place?”

“Huh?” 

Dimitri grabs Claude’s hand at that moment and yanks him along behind him, making Claude yelp. The two of them march their way into the den, right in the middle of Claude’s entire extended family.

“Everyone!” Dimitri says loudly, attracting their attention. His hand, still wet with dishwater, is still gripping Claude’s tightly. “I wished to make an announcement.”

Even Claude looks at Dimitri, curious to what he’ll say.

But he doesn’t expect Dimitri to lean forward, taking Claude’s face in his hands, and bending down to kiss him. 

It takes him by complete surprise, not only the fact that the kiss is happening, but the way Dimitri is kissing him. He’s assured, confident, not using his tongue or applying too much pressure. If Claude had been ready for it, it would have been an incredibly nice first kiss. But as it is, he finds himself frozen, finding this blindingly handsome man kissing him as though the feelings they’ve been faking are real, or as though he hasn’t just found out that he’s nothing but a pawn in Claude’s latest scheme.

Dimitri pulls back before Claude can start kissing him back, turning to Aunt Laleh defiantly.

“We’re gay!” he tells her proudly.

Claude coughs. “I’m bi,” he corrects weakly.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Dimitri starts again. “I’m gay, he’s bi, and we are in _love_!”

Claude has never in his life seen his aunt turn so pale, her skin turning blotchy. Around him, his younger uncles and aunts, as well as most of his cousins, are catcalling him, saying “Ooooh, Claude _joon_!” or making exaggerated kissing noises. 

Aunt Laleh, once she has apparently regained her senses, does not round on Claude and Dimitri. Rather, she turns her attention to Claude’s parents. 

“This is how you raise your son, Hakan?” she demands of Claude’s father. “To kiss other boys in front of my children? This is all because you married that Western girl — your child has had too many sinful influences…”

“And that’s our cue to leave,” Claude’s father says calmly. “Dimitri _joon_ , grab a pie or two for us on the way out, eh?”

Dimitri does as asked, grabbing an apple pie in one hand and a pecan in the other while Claude hurriedly snatches up a can of whipped cream and a handful of plastic forks. In minutes, he, Dimitri, and his parents find themselves out in his aunt’s front yard, rebundled against the cold, with his parents trying and failing to hold in their laughter. 

“Wow,” his mother says, her cheeks bright from the cold. “Claude, you did the impossible: getting out of a family gathering early. I’m so proud of you.”

Claude is still speechless, still remembering the way Dimitri had kissed him. He licks his lips slowly.

“Technically, it was all Dimitri’s doing,” he says finally, feeling his face burn. Beside him, Dimitri is silent, not looking at any of them. 

“So it was.” Claude’s father looks at Dimitri, his eyes twinkling. “You’re welcome at any of our family reunions, Dimitri. Either as our son’s friend… or more than that.”

His mother laughs, and they turn to walk arm in arm back to their car, Claude’s father balancing the apple pie in one hand. Claude turns to Dimitri, who is still unusually quiet.

“So,” he says, out of the need to say something. “That was… unexpected.”

Dimitri grimaces.

“I… I apologize. I should not have been so forward—”

“I don’t mind,” Claude tells him hurriedly.

“—the thought that anyone’s family could hate them for loving who they love…” A shadow falls over Dimitri’s face. “I cannot abide by that. And so if I acted rashly—”

“You didn’t,” Claude tells him, and Dimitri looks up with some surprise. “Well, maybe. But it’s not every day I get to have the daylights kissed out of me by someone as handsome as you.”

Dimitri laughs, incredulous. Even under the flickering light of the streetlamp overhead, he can see Dimitri’s blush darken.

“Handsome? I…” He clears his throat, offering Claude a sheepish smile. “Perhaps we’ve done things somewhat backwards,” he admits.

“Somewhat.” Claude smirks at him.

He almost wants to kiss Dimitri again. But more than that… he wants to get to know him. Really get to know him, outside of the awkward social gathering tonight has been, outside of their stilted interactions as neighbors. Claude has never been fully comfortable letting people in, but thinks that for Dimitri, he might make an exception.

Dimitri reaches for his hand, tentative, his own hand still damp from the dishwater. 

“Are you free tomorrow night?” he asks Claude, hopeful. “You could… you could come over to my apartment. We can order some food, you can meet my dog…”

Claude can feel his whole face light up. He laces his fingers with Dimitri’s, holding on tight.

“I think I can clear my schedule.”

Above them in the clear autumn sky, the stars glimmer with promise. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in about 3.5 hours because I have zero self-control. While I am not Persian myself, I love Persian!Claude very, very much, and tried to do some small amounts of research to add a few details to that effect. 
> 
> also, Dimitri's dog is a corgi named Gouda. (I'm not writing a follow-up to this, don't ask me to)
> 
> follow me on Twitter @apostaroni for more dimiclaudes!


End file.
